


A Love Letter

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Something Made Them Do It, martin is affected and jon isnt, messed up smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 08:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30085947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: Martin reads a letter that makes him feel very, very cold. Jon is the only warm thing in the world.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 148
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2021





	A Love Letter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ephemeral_lynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeral_lynn/gifts).



Jon gives up on the statement he’s reading halfway through in disgust. He knows that he’s supposed to keep an open mind, to consider all of the evidence available before he draws a conclusion, but over the years he’s accumulated a list of topics that make him stop wasting his time on a case. The list includes: crop circles, probing, dead or alive celebrities, anything that was bought from eBay, and popular fictitious characters. This statement has so far included _ all of them.  _ He should’ve stopped at the first mention of alien abductions. 

He gathers up the papers that had spread outwards from the file folder to the surface of his desk. How much time had he wasted on this nonsense, exactly? How much time had the  _ author _ wasted on it? It doesn’t bear thinking about. 

He stands up with the file in hand, still formulating the decision of whether he should file it in the discredited section or just save them all some space and chuck it straight into the bin, and several of the papers inside of the file immediately slide out to spill onto the floor. 

“Damn it,” he hisses, crouching to pick them up. This is far from the first time something like this has happened. He’s this close to just telling Tim and Sasha (not Martin, he can’t be trusted with any vaguely important task) to just staple all of the papers together so that they’ll at least  _ stay in one place.  _

He picks up the last paper-- stops. Frowns. Gives it a closer look. 

It’s immediately obvious that it doesn’t fit in with the rest of the file. The statement had been written on regular A4 paper in blue ballpoint pen. This paper is… thicker, and older somehow. Slightly yellowed with age. And it has creases like it’s been folded thrice, the writing black ink instead of blue, a fine cursive that doesn’t match the handwriting of the statement. He skims it-- it seems like a personal letter, with no mention at all of aliens or the name that the author of the statement had given. 

He scowls. It’s happened again. Something completely unrelated has gotten mixed up into one of the statements, and now they’ll have a snowball’s chance in hell of putting it back in its proper place. 

Well, that does it. He’s  _ definitely _ going to tell Tim and Sasha to start stapling papers together. 

He sets the lone letter aside on his desk, and goes to disdainfully abandon the statement in the discredited section, which is frankly more than it deserves. He stops by to inform Tim and Sasha of their new task. Martin asks hesitantly if he’s supposed to help with this too. 

“If you were supposed to help, I would’ve told you so from the start,” Jon snaps off, annoyed. 

“Right,” Martin says, shrinking a little. “Then-- what am I supposed to--?” 

“Just carry on as you were, Martin,” he cuts him off, aggrieved. Does Martin need him to hold his hand through every little task? Can’t he just figure out what he’s supposed to do and stop bothering Jon with questions? 

He turns around and leaves, before he lets himself say anything _ too _ sharp. 

Behind him, he hears Tim and Sasha’s voices speak up, their words too quiet for him to make them out. Their voices are muffled entirely when the door closes behind him, ensconcing him within his office. 

He gets back to work. He goes through two more statements, both of which he marks as discredited without putting much thought into it. Both of them record digitally, which is (a disappointment) a relief. Using the tape recorder is inconvenient. It’s only after he’s reached the bottom of the latest stack of files that he brought to his desk this morning that he remembers the letter, left abandoned at the far corner of his desk. He picks it up, wondering which statement it belongs to. Perhaps he’s already read it? He skips forwards to the end, to see if there’s a familiar name scrawled at the bottom. 

There’s no name, no signature. The letter just unceremoniously ends. He rolls his eyes. Of  _ course _ it couldn’t be that convenient. He sighs. He supposes there’s nothing for it. He goes back to the start of the letter and starts properly reading it, instead of just skimming it. 

It becomes clear after only a couple of paragraphs that it isn’t just a letter. It’s a _ love  _ letter. Not a sappy, sweet one between spouses or sweethearts, either. It’s… sad. The writer poured their heart out onto the paper, a raw confession of love and need, and he can read between every single line that they don’t think for even a moment that their feelings will be returned, could ever possibly be requited. Now that he’s properly looking at it, he can see that some of the words are blurred and smudged, as if teardrops had fallen onto the paper as the words were being written, warping them. 

He stops reading the letter halfway through, uncomfortable. The letter looks  _ old, _ but-- it feels like he’s voyeuristically staring at something intensely private, something incredibly painful. This isn’t some idiotic story about ghosts or aliens, cooked up from gullibility or paranoia or a stupid conviction that it’s oh so clever and funny. He’s not sure that the writer knows at all that this thing ended up in his archives, that they agreed to it. And it just-- it feels far too sincere to be some sort of elaborate prank. Too real. 

There’s a part of him that wants to keep reading, and it isn’t a small part. But he stops, setting the letter down. He doesn’t need to know every inch of this stranger’s heartbreak. It’s only when he lets go of the letter that he notices how cold his hands have become. He swears, tangling his fingers together and cupping them in front of his mouth, breathing hot air onto them. It doesn’t particularly help. 

The Archives are situated down in the basement of the Magnus Institute. It helps keep the papers cold even in the humid summers, which helps them avoid moldering rot and bugs. They’re allowed to turn the heat up some amount during the colder months, but still far from enough for comfort. He’s had to start dressing a lot warmer for work than he’d used to, back during his Research days. He’d seen Sasha come in wearing fingerless gloves one day, and he very much wishes that he could do the same, but no. He's the Head Archivist. He needs to look professional. 

He wishes that Martin would come through the door right now, with a steaming cup of tea that he could wrap his cold hands around. He doesn’t, of course. When has Martin ever appeared when he’s  _ wanted?  _

_ Not that he’d come even if he knew that you wanted him, _ an unfamiliar voice speaks up in the back of his head.  _ Why would anyone ever want to be around someone like you?  _

He hunches his shoulders, grips his hands together tighter, until he must almost look like he’s praying. He’s very cold. Did someone mess with the thermostat? He should go out there and fix it, tell off whoever turned down the meager heat they’re allowed for god knows what reason. 

_ Things like that are why no one likes you, _ the voice says.  _ Why no one loves you.  _

He breathes hot air on his hands again. He doesn’t stand up, doesn’t go to fix the thermostat. He’s-- he’s ordered around and scolded his assistant’s enough for the day already. It’s fine. He’ll adjust to the temperature soon. 

They’re probably all relieved that he’s holed back up in his office. Every time he leaves, it’s just to tell one of them to do something, or to inform one of them that they’ve done something wrong. Martin, usually, for that last one. Perhaps he should just do them a favor and try to stay here for the rest of the day until they leave. He shivers. 

He frowns, and shakes his head sharply at himself. He’s being-- ridiculous. Pathetic and self pitying, just because his coworkers aren’t his friends. 

_ Just because they probably can barely stand you.  _

Yes, well, that’s nothing new. He’s annoyed people with his personality for as long as he can remember. 

_ Just because  _ no one _ can stand you. Not a single person in your life likes you, cares about you.  _

“Some people just aren’t meant to have loved ones,” he mumbles to himself, underneath his breath. “Or be loved.” 

And he’s one of them. He’s long since come to terms with this fact about himself. There’s nothing to be done about it. Life has shown him this, over and over again. Every time he’s managed to gain some sort of connection with someone, it inevitably deteriorates and breaks with time, with enough exposure to him and the way he is. His grandmother, the feeble friendships he’d tried to create during his childhood, Georgie. The latest in a long string, Tim and Sasha. He hadn’t even meant to try and befriend those two, he’d already accepted that he isn’t supposed to have friends by the time he met them. They’d done it for him, without him even noticing until it was too late. No, the mistake he’d made was letting himself forget this fact about himself after they’d befriended him, to let himself hope and believe that this time would be different. 

It isn’t different. They’re still friends, they’re still connected. Barely. The bond hasn’t broken yet. It’s breaking. A little bit more each day. He doesn’t know how to explain it, just-- he can _ feel _ it. The growing distance between them. He doesn’t know the exact moment that it started, or how to stop it. 

But it’s fine. Some people are simply meant to be alone, and he’s one of them. He resigned himself to this fact years ago. It isn’t a thought that hurts any longer, it isn’t something to be scared of. It’s just the truth. Jon isn’t scared to be alone. 

Jon shakes off the odd little moment of self pity, of aching, terrified sadness. Loneliness. There’s no use sitting around and feeling sorry for himself. He has work to do. He unwinds his fingers, and is pleased to note that the chill has left them. It must have just been a passing draft. 

His eyes land back on the letter, and the urge to keep reading it itches in his fingers. He grimaces at the thought, picks up the letter, and opens his office door. 

“Martin,” he calls out. “I found something for you to do after all.” 

Someone has to find where it’s supposed to go, after all. Nevermind that it’s going to be like finding a needle in a haystack-- at least it isn’t an  _ important _ assignment. 

Bundled up in his cardigan, trembling hands tucked underneath his arms for warmth, he watches the teakettle and waits for it to begin shrieking. The Archives are always cold, but today they’re _ frigid. _ Tim and Sasha have already left for the day, and he should probably too. But if it’s this cold  _ inside _ the Archives, he hates to think what it’s like outside of it. He can’t quite work up the force of will to leave. He doesn’t want to think about going back home to his dinky little flat, with the weak heater that barely does anything, the piss poor insulation, the unreliable boiler, the landlord that never responds or fixes anything no matter how many emails he sends or calls he makes. It’s a depressing thought, but his own flat is often colder than his place of work. 

_ No one to warm it up, _ a voice in the back of his head says.  _ No one to warm  _ you _ up.  _

He watches his breath visibly plume in the air in front of him, and tries to stop his fingers from going numb. The kettle begins to shriek. He quickly pours himself a mug, his hands slow and clumsy with cold, fumbling and frantic with desperation. He doesn’t even wait to steep it properly. At this point, he’d just be grateful for a mug of hot water. 

He wonders if he should make some for Jon as well. 

_ Like he’d be grateful for it. Like he’d be grateful for anything that you could possibly give him.  _

Maybe not. He seemed in a bad mood the last time he saw him, with even less patience for Martin than usual. He should probably finish the task Jon gave him before he talks to him again. He grabs his mug and carries it over to his desk, where the letter is. 

God, the letter. He’s supposed to find where it’s actually supposed to be. It has no addresses on it, the envelope missing. Martin wonders it ever even found its way into one in the first place. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe the writer decided that it would be hopeless to send it the moment that they finished it. All of this pining, sorrowful longing put down in ink, the most sincere, heartfelt thing he’s ever read, and the recipient never even so much as read it. That idea strikes him as very poetic, in the saddest sort of way. 

It makes sense, too. There are no names in this letter, not of the writer nor the recipient. No sign off. It’s practically an impossible task that’s been set before him, considering how many statements are gathering dust down here in the Archives. 

He knows instinctively that Jon is going to be cross with him for not managing it anyways. If he’s in a good mood, he’ll just frown at Martin for a moment and then move on. That’s the best he can hope for. 

As always, there’s a part of him that hopes for more anyways. That he’ll come up with some miraculous solution, he’ll find this letter’s home and slot it perfectly back into place and Jon will be _ impressed, _ he’ll be  _ pleased.  _

_ Pleased? With _ you? 

“It could happen,” he says, a little bit feebly. He wraps his hands around his mug and drinks from it. It’s stone cold, like it’s been left to stand in a fridge for hours. 

_ When has anyone  _ ever _ been pleased with you? _

“Just ‘cause it’s never happened before doesn’t mean that it can’t happen in the future,” he argues weakly. He takes another drink from his weak, cold tea. He wishes that a single thing in the world was warm. He reads the letter again, trying to spot any new, useful details. 

_ … know that you would never love me back, could never…  _

_ … adore you more than words could ever express… _

_ … so much that it hurts… _

Tears drip off his nose and onto the letter, and it’s only then that he realizes that he’s crying. He makes a small, muffled noise of upset, and sets the letter down on his desk where he can’t ruin it any more. He tries to take a deep breath in and out, but it hitches in his chest on the way. He wipes roughly at his face with the sleeve of his cardigan. There’s something thick and heavy and a little bit painful lodged in the back of his throat, his chest. 

It’s just-- it’s so  _ sad. _ He has no idea who this person is, who they’re talking to, how long ago this was written. But the aching, painful hope that bleeds through every word of it is so familiar that it hurts. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever been this cold in his life. It feels like he’s never going to be warm again, like the cold has burrowed down beneath his skin and into his bones and is never, ever going to leave. He’s just going to be frozen and shivering for the rest of his life. No warmth, no comfort, no love. 

He wants to escape that fate so, so badly. He’d do anything. Please. What does he have to do? 

_ Jon is still in his office, _ the voice says. 

“He d--doesn’t want to see me,” he says, stumbling over his words just from how cold he is. 

_ But do you want to see him?  _

He does. It doesn’t matter if Jon might snap at him, will probably furrow his brow like he’s annoyed by Martin’s presence the whole time. The Archives feel so broad and cold and open, like a plain in a tundra, nowhere to hide from the cutting wind. He wants to go somewhere smaller, more hidden. He doesn’t want to be alone. God, he doesn’t want to be alone. 

He gets out of his chair, and stumbles over towards Jon’s office. He opens the door without knocking, using his hands more than his fingers because of how numb they feel. 

“Martin?” Jon asks, turning towards Martin with wide, startled eyes, seated at his desk. His eyes dart towards the clock on the wall, back to Martin. “What are you doing here at this hour? Why haven’t you gone home?” 

Martin stands there for one long moment, absolutely stunned at the feeling of  _ warmth  _ that wafts over his frigid skin like a summer breeze. It’s coming from Jon. Even standing several feet away from him, Martin can feel him. He’s a  _ furnace.  _

Martin has found the only warm thing in the world, and it’s Jon. He’s so, so cold. 

He takes a step towards him without even deciding to do it, and then another, and another. And then he’s in front of Jon. It’s a small office. 

“What are you--” Jon says, and then stalls mid sentence, as if he’s seen something unexpected. But all he’s looking at is Martin’s face. “... Is something wrong?” 

Surprised concern lances through his words like sunshine. Martin shivers at the sound of it. Even his  _ voice _ is warm, taking the bitter edge off the chill that’s freezing him from the inside out. He wants to hear more of it. Feel more of it. More warmth. He’s still  _ freezing, _ so cold that it hurts. He doesn’t want to hurt any more. 

Martin reaches out to touch that warmth without having to think about it, and Jon flinches back from his reaching hand, his arm coming up as if to block Martin from touching his face. He ends up wrapping his hand around Jon’s wrist instead, and it knocks a wounded, breathless noise out of him, the second he makes contact. He’s so cold, and Jon is so warm, and it’s so good that it  _ hurts. _ He feels like he should be melting, burning. 

He needs more. 

He pulls Jon up from his chair by his grip on his wrist, and Jon yelps and stumbles, unprepared, and he practically falls into Martin’s chest. Martin wraps his arms around him and holds him  _ close close close.  _ Another thin, pained noise rips its way out of him, and he squeezes Jon against him, tight. 

“Martin!?” Jon pushes against Martin’s chest, as if to push himself away. Martin holds him fast. Martin can’t lose him, this. He can’t go back into the cold, with nothing to warm him. He can still feel it lurking inside his bones, underneath his skin. It’s waiting for him, waiting for the moment that he’s alone again to descend on him like a pack of starving animals, to rip him to pieces, destroy and devour him. Jon is the only thing holding that back. Martin can’t let him go. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

“You’re so warm,” he mumbles into the top of Jon’s head. If he only holds Jon for long enough, closely enough, then his warmth is going to bleed through and into him, permeate him, chase the chill away. It has to. 

_ “What,” _ Jon says. “Let-- let go of me this instant!” 

_ You need more, _ the voice says. It’s right. He’s still cold. 

Still keeping Jon bundled close, his arms trapped against Martin’s chest, he slides one hand down, and then up underneath the edge of his shirt, sliding the fabric up the small of Jon’s back, his hand finally touching bare skin instead of just second hand warmth bleeding through clothes. The clothes are in the way. Muffling Jon’s warmth, keeping it away from him. He needs to get rid of the clothes if he wants to be warm again. 

Jon inhales sharply, his back arching away from Martin’s hand, pressing closer against his front. Martin’s hand follows the curve of his spine closely anyways. He can’t let there be any distance, can’t let go of the heat. He’ll freeze without it. 

“Martin,” Jon says tightly. Martin’s eyelids flutter shut at the sound of his warm, warm voice. He could listen to him talk forever, the words washing meaninglessly over him, unable to focus on anything except how the sound makes everything feel less harsh and biting for just a moment. “Don’t-- you don’t need to do anything-- something like--” 

“So warm,” Martin repeats mindlessly. He doesn’t know how else to say it, how perfect Jon is, what a salvation he is. He’s the only good thing in the world, the only warm thing, the only thing that will stop Martin from being so cold that it hurts, every single one of his muscles tense until they ache and throb, trembling with exertion, effort. He just wants to be warm enough that he can go soft and relaxed. He just wants to stop shivering. 

“If-- if this is about how I’ve been treating-- I’m  _ sorry, _ Martin. Th-- there’s no need for you to--” 

In one quick movement, Martin yanks Jon’s shirts off over his head, his sweater and button up both. He drops them to the floor, and Jon staggers back from him in that moment, shirtless and wide eyed, staring at him. Cold lances across every inch of Martin’s skin that had been feeling  _ warmth _ only a second ago. It’s awful. 

Jon tries to duck past Martin out of his office, but Martin snatches him back up easily. Jon’s warm, warm skin feels so good against his frozen hands. Jon squirms in his grip, struggling, and Martin holds him close, wrangling him. He has Jon’s back pressed up against his front this time, and in the end he has to bend him over his desk so he can lean his entire weight on him to pin him in place, keep him from leaving. Of course the only warmth in the world is trying to leave him, of course Martin has to struggle to keep him, to hold on with both hands. 

He can’t afford to lose him. If he does, he’s never going to get him back. He can feel that terror down to his core. 

_ “Martin,” _ Jon pleads thinly, still squirming ineffectually to get out of Martin’s grip, as secure as it is. Jon’s arse rubs up against Martin’s crotch, and a  _ bolt _ of heat shoots through him for a moment at the pressure. It makes him flinch and gasp, holding onto Jon even tighter. Until now, every single touch from Jon has felt like warmth slowly trying to thaw out a block of ice from the outside.  _ That _ had reached him all the way on the inside. 

He presses his crotch up against Jon’s arse, grinding up against it, and groans at the heat that sings through him at the movement, his voice muffled into the warm skin of Jon’s shoulder, nuzzling his face against him. It feels like his nose is about to freeze off, his cheeks, his lips, and Jon is a hot water bottle that he’s found just in the nick of time. 

Jon freezes up as Martin grinds against him, finally stopping to squirm and struggle, going tense and still in Martin’s grip, underneath his weight. 

_ Think of how warm you could be if you were inside him,  _ the voice says.  _ If you could burrow inside of that warmth, instead of just touching it.  _

God, yes. Please. Martin starts pawing at Jon’s belt, his fingers still a little clumsy from the stubborn, lingering cold that Jon’s warmth still hasn’t been able to get rid of. He has to separate from Jon by a few inches to manage it, instead of plastering his front to his back as closely as he can manage, and he _ hates _ it, hates the distance, the cold that seeps back into the space between them. 

“I’ll be-- I won’t-- won’t treat you badly any longer, please--” Jon babbles, twisting his neck to look back at Martin. Martin fumbles with Jon’s belt, breathing harshly. Jon stills again, his eyes going wide, wide, wider. 

“... Your breath,” Jon says, stunned. “Why is it--” 

Martin undoes Jon’s belt, and pulls his pants and trousers down all in one go. He dives back in to press himself up against him again, flatten and push Jon back down and into the desk, and he groans in relief at the warmth. More bare skin. More warmth.  _ More.  _

“You’re so lovely,” Martin says, voice almost slurred. He is. He’s so lovely, so wonderful, the best. The only warm thing in the world, and he’s here underneath Martin, in his arms. He needs to get inside of him. 

He thrusts his hips forwards, grinding his hardening cock against Jon’s arse, and Jon yelps again, a high, startled noise. He tries to get his dick inside, into that place that he  _ knows _ is going to be so warm and tight and good, but Jon is trying his best to keep his legs closed, and it’s  _ hard.  _ Whenever he tries to pry Jon’s legs apart, Jon tries to take the opportunity to squirm away. 

He _ needs _ to get inside him, but it’s hard, and it’s so cold that he can barely think. How can he fix this, how he can do this, how? 

_ Look, _ the voice says helpfully, and Martin’s eyes fall on a small, plain bottle tucked away at the corner of Jon’s desk. Martin recognizes it. Elias had given one as a little present to all of them when they’d first been sent down to the Archives. Hand lotion. 

_ Your hands are going to crack and peel otherwise, _ he’d said.  _ It’s so cold and dry down here. That won’t do, will it?  _

Perfect. Martin leans forwards, and he can hear the breath being pushed out of Jon as more of his weight rests on him for a moment. He snatches up the bottle of lotion, messily pumps a handful into his palm. 

“Martin,” Jon wheezes. “Listen to me. Something strange is going on. Something-- something’s  _ wrong _ with-- oh,  _ fuck!”  _

Martin works his now slick hand between Jon’s legs, worming and shoving his fingers up into his arse, despite the resistance, the struggle. He groans at the feeling, the warm clench of Jon surrounding and embracing his fingers. He tries to shove as many and as much of his fingers as he can up into him, as quickly as possible, desperate and  _ eager  _ for that warmth, to be enveloped in it. 

“You need to sto-- _ mmph!”  _

Keeping Jon pinned with his weight, he pushes the fingers of his other hand into Jon’s mouth, unable to resist. 

_ “God,”  _ Martin says raggedly, his voice cracking on the single syllable. Jon’s mouth is so  _ warm _ around his ice cold fingers, wet and perfect. He should’ve stuck his fingers into one of his holes  _ ages _ ago, it’s so good. He thrusts the fingers he’s got inside of Jon’s tight arse at the same time that he strokes his fingers inside of Jon’s welcoming mouth across his lovely, hot little tongue. Stuffed from both sides, both holes full of Martin’s broad fingers. 

Jon  _ keens, _ his voice wet and muffled around his mouthful. Martin manages to slide another finger up into his arse. 

“Perfect,” Martin tells him. “You’re going to feel so hot around me, so perfect.” 

Jon scrabbles at the surface of his desk, less like he’s trying to escape and more like he’s just overwhelmed and desperate for something to hold onto. Martin pumps his fingers in and out of him for a long moment, so very reluctant to take them out of him. But he can fit even more of himself inside of Jon, if he’ll only take his fingers out of the way first. 

He keeps fingering Jon until he’s whining with every movement, every exhale, twitching like a fish on a hook, all of his noises so loud when Martin’s got his fingers stuffed into his mouth, keeping it forced open. And then he regretfully frees up both of Jon’s holes, so that he can grip his hips properly, guide his cock towards his hole-- 

“Martin,” Jon says, voice raw and desperate, and it sends another bolt of heat through him, down his spine like lightning. 

Martin sinks into Jon. Jon’s tight, hot arse yields and lets him in, worked slick and open by his hand. Martin feels his eyes roll into the back of his head with sheer sensation, with  _ heat. _ Jon is holding his breath, is raking his nails down the surface of his desk helplessly. When Martin sinks all the way down to the root of his cock into Jon, he sobs with a relief so sharp that it  _ hurts.  _

He’s starting to feel less like a cold frozen thing sitting in front of a warm fire, and instead like a thing that’s finally, finally warming up. 

“You’re so  _ warm,” _ he says again, plaintively. “Jon, you’re perfect, lovely, wonderful, amazing,  _ warm, _ warm, warm.” 

“Martin,” Jon sobs, sounding as broken down and desperate as Martin feels in this moment. 

“Yes,” Martin says. “Yes, yes, yes.” 

He starts fucking Jon. His hips twitch back, only willing to slide out of him by one or two inches, and then driving back into that warm, perfect hole. It’s so tight, like it wants to hold onto Martin’s cock, doesn’t want to let it go. Like he should just stay inside of him forever. That sounds so, so good. He thrusts into Jon, mindlessly building up hot friction, stoking the growing warmth building in the pit of his belly, like glowing coals. With each thrust, he fucks another high yelp or moan out of Jon, a perfect little noise to make the heat inside of Martin flare higher and higher, brighter and brighter. 

The entire time, Martin can’t stop babbling about how lovely Jon is. How hot, how warm, how tight. He nuzzles his face into the nape of Jon’s neck, pressing kisses against his hot, sweaty skin between frantic words of appreciation and desperation, hungry for the feeling of Jon’s warmth seeping into his lips, every single inch of skin that he can manage to press against him. 

He thrusts into Jon like there’s any more of himself that he can fit inside of him, but he goes down to the root with each thrust, sheathed completely in delicious, overwhelming warmth. Jon makes high, helpless noises that  _ do _ things to Martin, leaving him feeling even warmer. 

“Wanna stay inside you always,” Martin mumbles into Jon’s skin, unwilling to stop mouthing at it for even a moment. “Wanna fuck you  _ forever, _ you’re so warm.” 

Mindlessly, one of Martin’s hands leaves Jon’s hip to grope between his legs instead, and he finds something nice and hot there to wrap his hand around. Jon jolts like he just got zapped by something, his arse clenching tighter around Martin’s cock for a moment. Martin’s moans into Jon’s shoulder. 

“That’s not-- don’t--” Jon says, frazzled, incoherent. Martin gives his cock a gentle squeeze with his hand, and Jon _ moans, _ loud and sudden. Martin shivers at the warmth that sparks off inside his chest at that. He likes it when Jon’s noisy. If he keeps fondling his cock, keeps fucking him, he’ll make even more noise. 

He starts stroking Jon’s cock in tandem with his thrusting hips, and Jon  _ sobs,  _ overwhelmed. After a while, Jon hips start needily twitching up into Martin’s grip like he can’t help it, like they’re doing it of their own volition. Martin strokes him, luxuriating in the warm glide of skin against skin, the way it warms his hand up. He nibbles at the side of Jon’s neck, tasting him, his warmth. 

Jon makes a choked sound and goes tense and still and shaking all at once, and semen spurts across Martin’s hand. It’s hot, burning hot. Martin groans with want as Jon squeezes up around his cock again, and he puts his back into it, fucking him hard and fast and merciless, feeling like he’s at the  _ cusp _ of something. Like he’s dry tinder just  _ waiting _ to catch, like he just needs a moment longer in the sun to ignite. 

Martin thrusts into Jon one final time as deep as he can go, and he  _ burns. _ Warmth, proper warmth, real warmth, warmth that he can feel all the way through him, pours over and through him as he comes inside of Jon. He holds on for dear life, his fingers digging harshly into Jon’s hips, bruise tight, a noise of strain slipping past his grit teeth. 

Martin has ten long seconds of breathing harshly against the nape of Jon’s neck, catching his breath, feeling so perfectly warm and dizzy. Overheated, almost. He’s sweating. He could almost cry from how good it feels, not being cold. 

And then the warm body underneath him shifts hesitantly, tiredly. 

“Martin?” Jon says, his voice raw and ragged from begging, pleading. Martin’s never heard him sound so small or tentative before. “Are you-- is it over?” 

Martin realizes _ \--remembers-- _ that he’s got his cock buried in Jon’s arse to the hilt. 

A cold feeling appears in his stomach. 

“Oh, god,” he says, too horrified to find any other words, and tries to recoil away from Jon. But then he whimpers in pain and Martin freezes-- he can’t just tear himself out. He makes himself pull his dick out of Jon slowly. He sees some of his come slide out of Jon’s hole as he does, and he flinches, a wave of nausea spiking through him at the sight. He just-- how could he  _ do that--  _

Jon stands up from where Martin had shoved him down over the desk and held him in place, and his knees almost immediately buckle. Martin reaches forwards to catch him on instinct, and then his brain catches up with what he’s doing, and he lets go immediately, backs up a step, another, another, until his back is pressed up against the back wall of Jon’s office. Jon sways as soon as Martin lets go of him, catches himself on his desk. Turns around to look at him. 

Martin stops breathing at the sight of his face. He looks like a mess. His hair in disarray, his face tear streaked. Martin made him _ cry. _ He tastes bile in the back of his throat. Oh, god, he’s going to be sick. 

“S-- so,” Jon says, “I am guessing… that you are back in your right mind?” 

Martin opens his mouth to say something, to answer, and nothing really comes out. How the hell does he explain why he’d done what he just did? _ Why had he done it?  _ Because he felt cold? Lonely? Did he just experience a psychological breakdown? 

Before he’d dropped out of school, he’d heard that one of his classmates' dad had forgotten the last two decades of his life after his wife divorced him and he got fired in the same month. He’d thought that he was a nineteen year old with no wife, no kids, no mortgage. He’d had to go to a care facility for a few months, and after that, apparently, the memories came back. Martin didn’t know the details. 

He hasn’t ever heard of someone  _ raping a person _ because they had a  _ meltdown _ out of  _ nowhere _ before, though. 

“Martin,” Jon says, and his voice sounds a little bit tight, uneasy. He hasn’t moved to put his clothes back on, still naked and keeping his eyes on Martin. “Please say something.” 

“I’m,” Martin says, and sucks a deep breath in. Right, breathing. He should breathe. “I’m so, so,  _ so _ sorry, Jon.” 

He just raped him for no goddamn reason, and now he’s  _ apologizing _ for it, like he just accidentally bumped into him or spilled tea on his paperwork. He has no idea of what else to say. 

Something in Jon’s shoulders untenses at the words, though, and Martin recognizes the wariness that had been his expression only when it goes away. He’d been afraid that Martin was going to ignore his words again, that he was going to grab him,  _ use _ him. And then his apology had somehow soothed that worry. 

The cold pit in his stomach deepens, grows colder. 

Jon quickly bends down to tug his trousers back up from where they’d puddled around his shoes during-- during  _ that. _ Martin starts as he realizes that his dick is still just _ out, _ and he hurries to tuck it back into his pants, doing up his zip and fiddling with the single button with trembling hands. 

“I-- I really don’t know why I-- I’m so sorry, Jon,” he rambles as he tries and fails to buckle his belt, his fingers slipping over and over again. At least it means that he can keep his eyes downcast, fixed on his hands. He hears fabric rustling, Jon putting his shirts back on. “So sorry.” 

He has nothing better to say, and it isn’t good enough. He’s awful. He’s a monster. He hadn’t _ meant to. _ He’s going to get fired. He’s going to go to jail. 

How can he think about what’s going to happen to  _ him _ right now, when he’s just done something so terrible to Jon? He’s a rapist. He blinks rapidly, his vision going blurry, his eyes stinging. It’s hard to breathe. 

The cold in his stomach is spreading outwards like pooling ice water. This time, it’s going to drown him. There won’t be a single warm thing in the world for him to hold onto, because Jon will be far, far away from him, and Martin won’t deserve to touch him anyways, to have any warmth for himself. He’s going to freeze to death all alone, and he  _ deserves _ it. 

A pair of brown, slim hands touch his, and he jumps, his heartbeat jackrabbiting as he looks up to see that Jon has crossed the room to stand in front of him. 

“I’m-- I didn’t mean to startle you,” Jon says. “I just… you look like you need some help. Do you mind?” 

Martin blinks, not understanding, but Jon seems to take that as an assent, because he gently pushes Martin’s hands away, and then he buckles Martin’s belt for him, cinching it properly for him. He takes a step back. Looks at him for a moment. 

“You’re breathing the right way again,” he says, his voice relieved. 

“What?” Martin asks. 

“Before,” Jon says. “While-- during, I could see your breath, like you were outside in the middle of winter. It isn’t cold enough for that down here, and  _ my _ breath wasn’t doing the same. You’re coherent again as well. That must mean that it’s over.” 

“It’s over,” Martin repeats dumbly. 

“Whatever was controlling you,” Jon explains, like it’s obvious. 

“Controlling me,” Martin says. Jon should be-- he should be fleeing the room. He should be telling Martin to leave. He should be throwing things at him, shouting, calling the police, crying out for help,  _ something. _ What is happening? What the  _ fuck  _ is happening? 

“The thing that was making you do that,” Jon says. “Do you remember what exactly it was? Did you read any strange books?” 

“N-- no?” he says, and he crosses his arms, each hand gripping an elbow, almost like a hug. Everything feels so-- is this _ real, _ or is it just a very, very realistic nightmare? “I did-- didn’t read any books, Jon. I was just-- I was working and I got so  _ cold, _ and after a while my thoughts… stopped making sense. I stopped thinking.” 

He wishes he’d been reading a book, a Leitner. Now that Jon’s brought up the possibility that it wasn’t  _ Martin _ that did this, not entirely, he desperately wants for it to be true. He doesn’t want to be the kind of person who does something like this. 

_ You did do it though, _ a voice says.  _ Look at him.  _

Jon’s put his clothes back on, and yet it’s still clear just by looking at him what’s happened. His clothes ruffled, his shirt untucked. He didn’t take the time to-- to clean up properly, from Martin coming inside him. From Martin forcing him to come, fondling and touching him until he’d wrenched an unwilling orgasm out of him. He needs a shower, a change of clothes, water, food, sleep. Martin has no idea how to get him any of that, right now. He feels like he’s doing something wrong just by standing in the same room as him, and yet he can’t bring himself to move. 

“... Oh,” Jon says, after a long moment. “Were you working on the letter?” 

The letter? The letter. That sad, heartbroken thing that he’d wept over just from reading it. 

“Yes,” he says. “What-- what does that have to do with--?” 

“Martin, I… I think I owe you an apology,” Jon says, which are the  _ literal last words _ that Martin was expecting from him at that moment. “I didn’t truly notice it at the time, but-- but I should have, I should have realized that there was something strange about that letter. It made me feel… odd, to read it, but I put it out of my mind and gave it to you instead. I’m sorry.” 

“I-- I hurt you,” Martin says helplessly, his voice breaking halfway through, unable to make himself say  _ rape _ out loud in this moment. 

“You didn’t mean to,” Jon says, and Martin realizes that Jon’s already forgiven him. He hasn’t even had the chance to clean himself up from what Martin did to him yet, but he’s forgiven him. Martin was ready to believe that he’d just had a random breakdown and done this of his own volition, and meanwhile Jon’s saying  _ no, it wasn’t you.  _

“How do you know that?” he asks, because it’s either that or burst into tears right here and now, and he shouldn’t do that,  _ he _ hurt  _ Jon.  _

“You-- you didn’t exactly seem to be enjoying yourself, even while it was happening, Martin,” Jon says softly, gently. “You were sobbing. Trembling. You were acting desperate and strange, not making any sense. And-- you look even worse now. It’s clear to see that you didn’t want to do any of it. Right?” 

Despite himself, a wounded noise leaves Martin. There’s a sharp ache in his chest. This is the man who sneers and turns his nose up at almost every single statement that comes across his desk. The skeptic. And he’s believing Martin, even when Martin can barely bring  _ himself  _ to believe this. 

“Are you still cold?” Jon asks, taking a quick, concerned step closer to him. He reaches out and takes Martin’s hands in his, tries to rub some warmth into them. It’s then that Martin notices that Jon’s hands are trembling very finely as well. He’s still shell shocked and terrified too. But he’s staying anyway. He’s staying, and he’s trying to warm up Martin’s hands, and he’s  _ concerned. _ He doesn’t hate Martin, even after what he did to him. Even though Jon doesn’t even  _ like _ Martin. 

“No,” he says, his voice small to make its way past the lump in his throat, and he realizes that it’s the truth. He’s a little bit chilly from where the basement air is prickling across the drying, cooling sweat on his skin, but it’s a mundane, familiar sort of cold. He’s warmer where Jon is holding his hands, but not overwhelmingly so. Jon isn’t a furnace. He doesn’t exude heat like an oven. His fingers are a little bit colder than they should be, in fact, like he has poor circulation. “I’m-- I’m not cold, Jon.” 

“Well,” Jon says, and gives him a look like he doesn’t quite believe him. “I have a blanket in Document Storage, just in case. I think that I’ll go and fetch it, and then we can notify Artefact Storage about the letter, yes? They have a night shift to keep an eye on some of the more, ah, active items.” 

Martin takes a moment to consider this. And then he _ does _ burst out into tears. 

Jon’s ensuing concern is the warmest thing he’s ever felt in his life. 


End file.
